


Those First Mornings of the World

by Arcus_Calion



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 04:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcus_Calion/pseuds/Arcus_Calion
Summary: An examination of the Coming of the Noldor to Beleriand and their meeting with the Mithrim and the Elves of Thingol from the points of view of Annael, Amros (Amras), and Lalwen. My first fic, so I'd love any comments. <3





	1. Annael 1

The morning mist shone with the fires of the eyes of Árië, and the golden dew was shining on every blade of grass. The hithlain buds1 gleamed blue in the dew of the morning, looking like sapphires cut in the deeps of Belegost, but all the more lovely for their wildness and natural imperfection. The sound of bells floated through the morning sunlight like a call out of a dream: half-remembered and half-heeded, but strangely compelling for all that. Annael took a deep breath of the sunlit mist, taking the moment to bask in the glory of these, the first of mornings.  
His people were the Mithrim, the Grey-elves of the north, who had long ago left the quiet woods of Beleriand to cross the Mountains of Shadow into the wide plains of the Land of Mist. There they were safe from the wiles of the Dark One to the north, who had rarely sent his foul broods through the passes in the mountains to the mostly desolate lands of Hithlum. Annael had thought such a bulwark as the mountains would be sufficient for his people to grow in peace, happy and content in their youth beneath the wheeling stars.  
Then the Voices had been heard. A great clamor, like a thousand men screaming in agony, and a thousand women weeping in distress came up from the lands of Lammoth, where long, long ago they had heard the cries of the Dark One, and the watchers in the Pass of Sirion had seen the trails of Flame go west towards the sound. Then She had come south, a vast and bloated Darkness in spider-form, her maw dripping with translucence, and her eyes filled with a terrible hunger. King Elu-thingol had driven her back with the bright axes of the Grey-elves, until she cowered in the haunted cliffs of the Ered Fuin… now the Ered Gorgoroth.  
Thus, when the Voices had been heard, the Mithrim all looked to the West in fear, wondering what new evil this might forebode. Annael had commanded them to take refuge in the Caves of Androth, the refuge of their people. He had sent watchers out across the lands, wearing the grey cloaks of the Mithrim, woven with words of hiding, creeping, flitting; a song of secrecy. These shielded them from even the bright eyes of the host that had now come into the land: a great folk, several thousand strong, who marched in ordered companies from the great cleft of the Rainbow Mist. The watchers reported that they had carved a great Way through the hills, in short time accomplishing such a feat as only the delvers in Belegost and Nogrod might hope to achieve.  
These warriors were bright-eyed, with raven hair, and stars of silver on their gleaming coats of steel, and banners of red and blue and many colors, flying many symbols of intricacy and power. The Grey-elves wondered much, for they looked to be Eldar indeed, but like more to the great Hunter himself, who some remembered from their great March across the world. These newcomers had seen the Powers, and the Light of Paradise shone from their faces. Therefore, Annael had decided to accost them as allies, hoping to learn from them some reason for their arrival.  
However, The Dark One had also heard the Voices, and while the Lechind (the Flame-eyed)2 carved their great path through the hills of the Ered Lómin, he prepared to greet them in his own way. As the lead company of the Lechind came to the shores of the Nen Mithrim, the watchers of Annael reported a vast host coming through the passes of the Ered Wethrin: Orcs and wolves of a fell and evil look, who came on a sudden upon the Lechind as they set up their camp.  
Then the people of Annael were in sore distress, fearing the deaths of these newcomers to the land, and were of a mind to aid them in their need. Thus Annael, despite his wish to avoid the Dark One at all costs, found himself coming down from the north upon the flank of the Dark One’s host with two-score of archers armored only in their cloaks of secrecy. These kept them hidden until they were upon the enemy, and could see the very whites of their eyes. They let loose their arrows upon them from the rocks and grass all along their flank, and the losses of the enemy were great. The Lechind let up a great cry, and in unison burst into song in a language both beautiful and fell, as if to sing the Orcs to death with the fierceness of their valor.  
Annael and the Grey-elves had hearkened and followed the fight, but remained hidden, fearing the bright eyes of the newcomers. Thanks to the surprise of their arrows, the enemy had been taken at unawares, and the Lechind quickly rallied against them, driving the Orcs before them like leaves. One there was among them, with a banner of crimson, whose raven locks blew fiercely in the wind from underneath a circlet of silver. Annael had seen with the sight of the Eldar that this circlet had three places where at one time it might be thought that something had rested. However, the circlet now seemed empty, and the one who wore it blazed forth his fury upon the enemy. He laughed as he went, rejoicing in his strength in the youth of the world, beneath the wheeling stars.

Annael sighed. He had learned so much since then. After revealing themselves to the newly victorious Ñoldor (for so they called themselves, and so even the Grey-elves of his following remembered from the days of the March) he and his people had mingled with these princes of the West, in great awe of the fire of their eyes, and the splendor of their arms. Indeed, Annael went to the captains of the companies, who were six, and bowed before them. However, he refused to be daunted and made to forget his station, and so he had drawn himself up to his full height, and though aware of the silver and gold of their circlets (he wore only a wreath of holly leaves and hithlain) he spoke to them in the most regal voice he could, bidding them welcome and thanking them for their aid in the banishment of the Orc host.  
One among them, with hair of deep black, and with a harp of grey at his side, spoke then in a voice like music, in the ancient tongue of his people from the days of the March. Little was this known among them, but Annael was not alone, and of his people there were those who remembered the old tongue. Thus it was that they were able to talk, the Lechind prince and the Mithrim lord.  
That was how he had met the Sons of Faenor. Canafin, the one was called, but also Maglor. He was noble of face, but in his eyes there was a glint of steel that belied one who was stronger than his courteous speech would make it seem. His brothers were Maedros, and also Nelafin; Caranthir, and also Morifin; Celegorm, and also Turgafin; Curufin, and also Adanga; Pidafin, and also Amros.3 These were the lords of the Ódhil (for so the Mithrim called them) and they had quickly begun to set up camp along the shores of the Nen Mithrim. Annael had sent out the fastest of his people to Círdan the Ship-lord and Elu-thingol, the lord of all the Grey-elves of Beleriand and the North, and soon word had spread throughout the land of the coming of the Flame-eyed warriors from over the Western Sea.

Annael had been glad of the alliance with such doughty lords, but that had been before the capture of Maedros and the rising of the Moon. When the silver disc of horned light had first leapt up out of the West over the teeth of the Ered Lómin, the Mithrim and the Ódhil alike had cried out in joy, and uplifted their voices in song to the rising of the new and holy light. But their joy was tempered by the loss of the leader of the Ódhil: Maedros, the fierce and tall. Annael still remembered the wonder he felt as he had seen the flame of red hair flow from the helmet of the tall warrior as he had taken it off to greet him. When word came from the watchers in the Pass of Sirion that he had been taken with Shadow and Flame to the Reeking Summits of Thangorodrim, all had wept. Annael wondered greatly that these bright-eyed lords did not ride with their full splendor across the green fields of Ard-galen unto the rocks and fissures of the gates of the Dark One, whom the Ódhil named Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World. However, it seemed that even these lords, who looked like the Powers of the world themselves, feared the might of the Morgoth, and dared not challenge him thus, at least not yet.  
Then had come the flaming ship of the Sun over the rim of the Sea, rising with splendor into the High Heaven, and all the Elves had looked up in delight. Light of this kind had Annael and his people never seen: the golden light of the fire of Anar, which must be drawn, as the Ódhil said, from the dew of the Tree of Gold. Even as she had risen flaming into the sky, another host had come. Annael had little warning of them, as he had not thought to watch the ways to the West, thinking the Lechind to be all come. But now there came like a vast river of shining silver the host of the brother of the bright-eyed Faenor. The Sons of Faenor were sorely adread at that, and to the distress of the Mithrim, had departed from their houses and their tents, marching in haste around the Nen Mithrim to the opposite shore. Annael and his people remained, and greeted the shining host.

Annael had been given only two names in his life. His name of old had been Anwë, the ancient of the March, where he had grown as a child. When his parents had chosen to stay on the Hither Shore as followers of Círdan, they had changed it to Annael, which is “Give to the Stars.” This was done as a sign of their commitment to the star-lit lands of the Hither Shore, and their love of the twilight under which they dwelt.  
Annael had never questioned the fittingness of this name. But now, under the golden radiance of the newborn Sun, face to face with the flame-eyes of a lord of the Lechind, he felt it was no longer very apt.  
The leader of this new host was found to be called Fin-golfin, the Wise. He and his host with their blue and silver banners were haggard and thin, but still held the light and vigor of Paradise in their eyes. He had welcomed this new Lord to his land, and bade him to set up his homes on the shores of the Nen Mithrim, where the Ódhil had already made their camp aforetime.

Now he stood in the dew of the morning, with the glory of Anar above him in the azure vault of Heaven, with doubt in his mind. He was the lord of the Mithrim, and he had come to this land to keep his people away from the wars with the Morgoth, but these Lechind seemed liable to bring the wars to his very doorstep. Fin-golfin had strode forth from the plains of Mithrim forthwith upon his arrival, and went up to the very doors of Hell, daring to sound his challenge amid the pits of the Foe, before coming back to the fields of hithlain and the slopes of holly trees; back to Annael, who had to figure out what to do with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - In Lord of the Rings, the Elves of Lorien made their grey cloaks out of "hithlain," and in The War of the Jewels: Quendi and the Eldar, Tolkien says this art originated with the Grey-elves of Mithrim. I assumed that must mean that hithlain is plentiful there as well. Bunn has a great fic describing the blue flax flowers in Mithrim, and I loved it, so I sorta took that idea here as well.
> 
> 2 - The term "Lechind" is said in Quendi and the Eldar to be the term the Sindar had for the Noldor who came from Aman, meaning "Flame-eyed." I loved that idea, so I had to use it here.
> 
> 3 - These are the Sindarin names of the Sons of Fëanor, as well as the extrapolated Sindarin forms of their other names given in the Shibboleth of Fëanor.
> 
> As a general note, I prescribe to the idea that whatever Tolkien wrote latest in life, as long as it did not contradict anything he had already published, is canon. Therefore, the story in the Shibboleth about the death of Amrod is canon to me, as tragic as it is, and also the names of the brothers are Maedhros -> Maedros, Amrod -> Amarthan, Amras -> Amros. I know that is somewhat drastic, but I like to have a systematic way to determine canon, and these would be the names by that system.


	2. Ambarussa 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter of The First Mornings of the World. This tells of the return of Maedros from the point of view of Amros, who I feel is a very underrepresented character in the Legendarium and in fanfic.

Ambarussa was roused from his dreams of fire by the sound of horns ringing out in the clear golden air. They were deep-throated horns of brass, giving a loud and powerful challenge to the skies, and the billowing clouds that had begun to cover them. He emerged from his tent of russet canvas and followed the sounds of their brazen calls. Like everyone in the host, he wore his armor wherever he went, for these were not the friths and fields of Aman the Blessed, but the wilds of Hísilómë, the Land of Mist on the borders of the Land of the Moringotho, the Black Foe of the World.

He had seen them, the fuming towers the Thangorodrim (as the Sindeldi called them), when he rode across the fields of the green plain before the doors of Hell, chasing his father. The battle had gone so well, as far as the second battle of the Ñoldor could be expected to go. The first one hadn’t gone well at all, but that had been doomed from the start. At least in this battle there was a right and a wrong, and one could swing the sword without feeling it kill a friend.

Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire, had been named all too aptly. The flame of his eager pride had borne him on the wings of false hope into the very doorway of Hell, and there he had been surrounded by the whips of the Valaraukar, too late for Ambarussa and his brothers to bear him thence. His wounds had been mortal, and as they retreated into the heights of the Orolómi, he had bidden them be still and lay him down within site of the reeking towers of his foe.

Ambarussa pulled his deep red cloak more tightly around himself in the chill misty air of the new morning, as he remembered his father’s face as he had told them to repeat the words of the terrible oath; had held them to it with the guilt of his impending death, and the power of his voice. Ambarussa had hated him in the moment at the Burning of the Ships, but as he lay there gasping his last breath, he had felt only sadness and regret. His father was driven by pride, but in his last days the fear of Moringotho had driven him, and by extension, fear of the Valar. Ambarussa and his brothers had watched in anger and horror as he was, as they all saw it, wronged and banished and betrayed by his family, his rulers, and his friends. When the Lord Finwë had been slain and the Silmarilli taken, their anger had blazed forth together as they had all sworn their Oath of vengeance, and all had gone downhill from there.

As much as Ambarussa had sympathized with his father’s anger, he himself wished more to explore the wide lands under the stars; to see the mountains and rivers and forests untrodden by any save the wild hunters of the Horned Rider. When their oath led them to the Kinslaying, and blood stained the white quays of Alqualondë, he had felt the remorse of fear, for he had not intended to slay his friends when he had sworn the dreadful words. Nonetheless, the desire to explore the lands of the earth still rang loudly in his ears, and he wished to follow his father to their fulfillment.

The same could not be said for his brother. Telvo, or as he should now be known, Umbarto, was stricken with grief at the deeds of his family, himself refusing to partake in the slaying of the innocents of the Haven. Again when the ships were taken in the night by guile and Ñolofinwë was left in the wastes of Araman to either die or be shamed, his heart had broken at last. The last time they had seen each other, he had said to Ambarussa: “My heart is black from shame and remorse, brother. What we have done may not be undone, but I will do no more in this vein.” Ambarussa had been shocked at that, and asked what he meant by this.

Telvo had smiled then, a sad smile without any of his usual mirth. “I may not sail as one of the Teleri, or sing the waves to my will as readily as our Aunt’s people, but I am far more willing to risk death in the bosom of Ossë than to trouble the wide lands of Middle-earth with my dreadful oath. I shall see you again brother, one way or another, but I can follow you no longer.”

Ambarussa had not answered this, but the thought had lain heavy on him. When Telvo did not disembark from the ships upon landing in the Hither Lands, he knew what his brother planned to do. So, it turns out, had Fëanáro. Late in the night the ships had blazed up with a hungry copper light, eating at the stars. Ambarussa had asked everyone where his brother was, only to seethe awful truth written on the pallid face of his father. He heard in his father’s voice the horror of his own error, for only Ambarussa had known that Telvo had not disembarked from the ship, and no doubt Fëanáro had hoped to prevent Telvo from sailing home, thinking him on shore with his brethren. “Fell and fey you are become.” These were the only words Ambarussa had for his father when he learned of the loss of Umbarto, his brother. “The fated” – his mother had seen in him the truth of his end, and its fulfillment left all with bitterness.

Ambarussa would have left to return to Aman, but with the fleet of the Teleri destroyed, he had no choice but to follow his brethren and father into the lands of Hísilómë, each step away from his brother adding another weight to his already heavy heart.

Now, without father or twin, he found himself amongst his remaining brethren, who had now lost Maedros to his own pride as well; the deeds of the father and the deeds of the son weaving together like two strands of gold in the loom of Vairë. While he held out hope for the life of his brother, he held out none for the soul of his father. All who heard the Doom of the Ñoldor knew that “on the House of Fëanáro the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West into the uttermost East.” Who could hold out hope after hearing these words? Mandos brooked no pity, and when he or his servants spoke, Law was born.

Ambarussa steeled his gaze as he walked through the city of cloth which had sprung up along the southern shores of the great lake. He must persevere, for his brother. If he must remain on the Hither Shore he would work to see the will of Telvo carried out: that the deeds of the father would not become the deeds of the sons. If the recklessness and pride of his brethren would lead to their deaths, he would not allow it. He would not let the others join Telvo and his father.

This was his reason for seeking out the trumpets. He hoped to gain from them news, if they had any, and then to seek out his brother, who alone of the Ñoldor lived in uncertain fate. If he yet lived, and Ambarussa still held that hope in his heart, he would find him and return him to his brethren.

\-------------

Filled with thoughts of the Doom, and the fires at Losgar (as the Mithrim called the place of the Burning) he came at last to the riders who had blown the brazen horns. Looking into the crowd, he was surprised to see a figure in blue and silver, gaunt but proud, standing among the horses and spears of the riders of the host of Fëanáro. His armor bore dents, and his clothing had seen better days, but the fire in his eyes and the sword at his side were as bright and sharp as the day when Ambarussa had first seen him riding on the plains of Valinórë with his lady.

Aranwë, steward of Írien, the sister of Ñolofinwë turned to face Ambarussa, his grey eyes glinting with the joy of bearing good news. There had been no contact between the people of Ñolofinwë and of Fëanáro since their arrival from the Helkaraxë save for the occasional sighting of armed patrols and the fear of war, and Ambarussa wondered that he should seem so joyful in the midst of his betrayers.

“Hail and well-met, Lord Pityafinwë, I come bearing tidings from the Lady Lalwendë which will bring you great joy. Beyond all hope your brother has returned to us alive, borne from the face of Hell by a messenger of Manwë.” As Ambarussa heard the words, he barely registered their meaning. Maitimo, alive? Messenger of Manwë? These words were too odd, too strange. No, he thought, I am about to go rescue him, for Telvo. I will bring back my lost brother, and together we will fight the long defeat.

Finally he said simply: “How?”

Aranwë smiled at that and told him the tale of the bravery of Findekáno, who rode in secret to the gates of Angamando, the Hells of Iron, and found Maitimo by a song on the face of the cliff. He wept to tell of the cruel band of iron, and the laments of Findekáno and Maitimo in the face of despair. But his tale turned to joy when he told of Sorontar the Lord of Eagles descending from Tarmenel at the behest of his lord to save them from their peril, bearing them back on the wings of the wind to the camp of Ñolofinwë on the northern shores of the great lake.

Ambarussa wept with joy and pain at the story, relieved that his brother was returned, and ashamed that it was not by his own hand. At last, when Aranwë had finished his tale, Ambarussa said: “Yea, this indeed is among the first of the tales of the valor of the Ñoldor in this land, and will by no means be counted the least among them.” And in his heart he knew a new feeling: the feeling of hope, greater than he had known before, and seeming to come to him from beyond the sorrow of the present.

\-------------

When he had told his brothers, Makalaurë cried out in joy, and Karnistir smiled in relief. Sparing no time, they rode forth without escort, fearing to present a strong host, as if for battle, and spurred their steeds along the shores of the great lake. Coming with Aranwë to the outskirts of the camp of Ñolofinwë, they were admitted by the sentries into the tent where their brother was resting in comfort, and were aghast at what they saw.

Gone was the flaming-haired leader of the Ñoldor. In his place there was a shrunken thing, with sallow skin that stretched across his bones like parchment, and eyes that held the faintest stirrings of madness. Still, he smiled when he saw them, and none could contain their tears and their joy, and there was much to be said between them of regret and remorse.

At length, all this was done, and Ambarussa said: “Russandol, what of the people of Ñolofinwë? I and our brother were sorely distressed that they were left to wander in the waste alone, and they did not return to the land of Valinórë as father thought. Because of our treachery they wandered the grinding hills of ice that clash in the gulf of Qerkaringa, and many have perished therefrom. That Findekáno has freed you from Hell is a great thing, in the face of such a betrayal, and what may we now do to right this wrong?”

Maitimo looked hard at him, and although tired, he raised himself in his bed and said: “Truly Pityo, the Coming of the Ñoldor has been fraught with treachery, as indeed the Doom may be seen already. By my view, because of these treacheries which our father committed, but which we by no means prevented, I hold myself unkinged, much as our grandfather once did, although, I hope, for a better reason. We have no right to the crown of the Ñoldor, and the dispute that so consumed my father has no hold on me. Wherefore I say: let Ñolofinwë have the lordship, yea, and the name as well. He is Finwë-Ñolofinwë now, and our king.”

At that Ambarussa smiled, feeling the wrath of his brethren about him, but feeling also the laughter of his brother from afar, and knowing that this was the path he would have wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I use the Quenya versions of everyone's name as it would be written to denote First Age style, with "Q" for "QU" and "Ñ" for "N" and "K" for "C". Most of the names come from the Shibboleth, except for the word "Qerkaringa" which appears in the Lost Tales as a name for the gulf where the Grinding Ice sits.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 - In Lord of the Rings, the Elves of Lorien made their grey cloaks out of "hithlain," and in The War of the Jewels: Quendi and the Eldar, Tolkien says this art originated with the Grey-elves of Mithrim. I assumed that must mean that hithlain is plentiful there as well. Bunn has a great fic describing the blue flax flowers in Mithrim, and I loved it, so I sorta took that idea here as well.
> 
> 2 - The term "Lechind" is said in Quendi and the Eldar to be the term the Sindar had for the Noldor who came from Aman, meaning "Flame-eyed." I loved that idea, so I had to use it here.
> 
> 3 - These are the Sindarin names of the Sons of Fëanor, as well as the extrapolated Sindarin forms of their other names given in the Shibboleth of Fëanor.
> 
> As a general note, I prescribe to the idea that whatever Tolkien wrote latest in life, as long as it did not contradict anything he had already published, is canon. Therefore, the story in the Shibboleth about the death of Amrod is canon to me, as tragic as it is, and also the names of the brothers are Maedhros -> Maedros, Amrod -> Amarthan, Amras -> Amros. I know that is somewhat drastic, but I like to have a systematic way to determine canon, and these would be the names by that system.


End file.
